Extraordinary Person
by JulesDPM
Summary: A Gordon short story.


_Author's note: Big thanks for the stirling work from my lovely betas: Lynn and Quiller. Thanks to Quiller (and Boomercat, of course) for pointing out Gordon's many qualities and thanks to Lynn for the plot bunny. Dedicated to an extraordinary person._

The one where an extraordinary person thinks he's ordinary

As Gordon walked along Park Lane to his London hotel he suddenly wished he was back on the warm and sunny Tracy Island. It was nearly Christmas and London was cold and wet. It had been trying to snow all day but all that was coming down from the sky was a sort of sleet. The damp chill was getting into Gordon's bones and it wasn't helping his mood. Weather like this made him much more conscious of the parts of his body that were injured in his hydrofoil accident. His back wasn't hurting this time but the other bits that had also suffered, like his fractured ankle and broken wrist, were. His right ankle, in particular, was now aching dully and he started favouring it as he walked along.

He was on a short vacation. Well, it wasn't his idea of a vacation which would be more like diving and doing conservation work on the reefs off Australia. Instead he had been with Lady Penelope for a couple of days, nominally resting but also discussing a few International Rescue issues. Her stately home, though magnificent, was spooky and oppressive at night and he had been glad to move on to the centre of London to do some Christmas shopping before he returned home. But he couldn't shift his gloomy mood. He had thought that a few days away from annoying big brothers would cheer him up but, actually, he decided that playing a prank on Scott right now would probably give him more pleasure than time in a five star hotel.

Gordon walked up to the front of his hotel and the liveried doorman bade him "Good evening" and opened the door. As he walked slowly across the lobby, the warmth raised his spirits a little. Heading for the lift he started to pull off his gloves and scarf whilst searching in his pockets for his credit card-sized room key. A tall man walked passed him and did a double-take.

"Gordon Tracy?" said an American voice.

Gordon swung around at the sound of his name. The man was starting to smile. "It is you, isn't it? That's amazing. I am, well _was_, such a big fan of yours. That final race to win the gold, you were just flying through the water.

A fan. Inwardly Gordon sighed. As the man stretched out to shake his hand Gordon, as usual, felt awkward and bashful. He never could get used to the adoration of others for his swimming skills. In his humble opinion he knew there were better swimmers than he. He'd just been in the right place at the right time and his hard work had paid off. At times like this he thought about Scott and the way he could swing into charm mode at the drop of a hat, taking compliments and sharing small talk with ease. Gordon smiled back and chatted with his fellow American for a short while. He signed an autograph and at last the fan was happy. Gordon turned and walk back towards the lift, trying not to limp, knowing he was being watched.

It was a relief to him when he was finally in his room. He chucked his coat and shopping bags on the bed and sank into a high-backed chair. He felt old. He massaged his ankle, trying to ease the ache. He was very aware of the fact that, by his fifties, there was a fair chance that he would have to spend at least some of his day confined to a wheelchair. His various doctors and physiotherapists had not spared him that information and he was obsessive about doing the various exercises he needed to keep fit and mobile. If he ever looked like he was stiffening up Scott would start him on a week long routine of special exercises,Virgil would fuss around him in an irritating manner, while his father would be suggesting he made an appointment to see his therapist in Auckland. Deep down he was grateful to them for their concern but fervently wished he didn't need their attentions.

Gordon sat in the dimly lit room and considered his life. To sum up, he was only 24 but he was all washed up. His glory years were behind him and it was all downhill from here. With his Olympic achievements and his time in WASP he had achieved an enormous amount in his life. But he also felt that, in a way, he had peaked too early.

Of course there was International Rescue and that was his life now. But to be honest, he was starting to take it for granted. He got a thrill when a rescue went well but, the truth was, he wasn't doing anything more than any other man of his age would do if they had access to fantastic technology to save people's lives. He didn't feel especially heroic or brave. When he had been swimming his actions had been validated by the media and his daily fan mail. Now the only people who knew what he was doing were his brothers and they were in the same position as he was. Self-congratulations were not high up on the list of favoured Tracy brothers attributes.

It was at this point that Gordon felt hungry, and decided that his self-pity had gone on long enough. His grandmother's words came back to him. "Well, of course you feel out of sync, Gordon Tracy. When did you last have a proper meal?"

Gordon eased himself out of his chair and decided to get some sustenance. The hotel itself had several restaurants and bars. He had tried a couple of them and the food served in the restaurants was of very high quality. Tonight, however, he felt like something more informal and decided to head to one of the bars where they served light meals. There was also a large screen TV on one wall and thought that perhaps he would be able to watch another one of those English soccer games. He was still trying to work out why the Brits got so animated over a score line of 2-1. A total of three goals in 90 minutes did not seem to make for an exciting match in his view.

He took the stairs rather than the lift, his innate Tracy stubbornness not allowing him to take the easy option, despite his aches. He went into the bar and looked around for a seat. He was about to hide in a corner when he glanced towards the TV screen. Instead of a soccer match he saw a distant shot of Thunderbirds 1 and 2 at a rescue site. The pictures were blurred by the equipment Brains had installed to prevent photography but they were still recognisably Thunderbirds to anyone who knew them well. Gordon narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath to prevent himself from rushing through the bar to get a closer look. When the adrenaline rush had calmed down he walked casually between the tables and chairs to find a seat nearer the TV screen.

As he sat down he had forgotten about being hungry. Looking at the TV report he felt a sudden rush of affection for his older brothers. For all their smugness and big talk in front of him they treated their Thunderbirds with skill and care. Gordon respected that. As he watched Virgil land Thunderbird 2 on the TV he could see in his mind's eye what was going on in the cockpit. His brother went through his own personal sequence of moves to perfectly land Two in the same way that Gary Allen went through his motions before throwing the perfect pitch for the New York Yankees.

The television cameras were being kept well back from the rescue but Gordon could tell, with relief, that it was a land rescue so no-one would be mucking about in Thunderbird 4. The on-site reporter was now doing a piece to camera. Unfortunately, he didn't know much and just kept rehashing the same three bits of information in different ways. Even so, Gordon couldn't tear himself away from the screen. He wished he was there giving Scott, John and Virgil a hand.

A middle-aged English woman sitting at the next table saw his intense interest and leant over to him. "They're just great, aren't they?"

Gordon started. He wasn't sure how to reply. Finally he said, "They seem committed to rescuing people."

"Yes, they do. I wish we knew a bit more about them. Their aircraft are so big, I can't imagine how they make them, especially that big green one."

"Oh well," smiled Gordon, "maybe one of their designers just likes really big stuff and thinks bigger is better. Personally, I feel small can be beautiful too. Easier to manoeuvre, as well."

"I suppose they need something big to carry all that equipment in. We never get to see it but there are rumours they have a whole range of vehicles."

The two were distracted for a moment by the reporter imparting a bit more news about the rescue, which was a landslip in Asia. Gordon started running through the equipment needed in his mind but his thoughts were interrupted again by the woman.

"I don't know what we did to deserve International Rescue but I'm so glad they're around. Sometimes I get really sad about the state of the world. There is so much crime and violence, lack of respect and concern for others. International Rescue are like a ray of sunshine. They turn up at the most dreadful disasters and do their good work and then they disappear again. They don't seem to do it for the praise or the thanks, just out of the goodness of their hearts."

"Well…um…I'm sure that they must get thanks from the people that they've helped," suggested Gordon.

"Oh, I'm sure they do. But look at someone like me. I've never been rescued by them or known anyone personally that has. Even so, they give me a sense of hope that the world isn't all bad, that someone is willing to make a difference however little reward they get. What frightens me is that they don't know how they not only affect the lives of people they rescue but of ordinary people like me. I'm afraid that one day they'll just give it all up."

Gordon suddenly felt humbled. The woman was right, he hadn't given much thought to how their actions might also have an impact on people around the world whom they had not helped personally. Here he had been, moaning to himself about his minor aches and pains and the lack of meaning in his life when really, what he was doing now was more important than a culmination of everything that had preceded it. He felt pride in his role in International Rescue and he now appreciated that they had the respect of more people than they had imagined. He gave the woman a warm smile.

"You know, I don't think they'll be giving up any time soon."

"I hope you're right, young man," replied the woman, amused by his confidence.

Gordon stood up. "Thank you," he said to her.

"What for?"

"For being kind to a stranger. I'm sorry, I have to go now."

"Oh right. Where are you going?"

"Back home. There's some stuff I need to catch up on there."

And the woman watched the ginger haired young man stride out of the bar as if he hadn't a care in the world.

The End


End file.
